Welcome to El Salvador
El Salvador was next on our list. We still hadn't figured out what to do about Honduras, but the beaches of La Libertad were calling and we had to answer. We would put Honduras on hold and get back to her later.
Like most Central American countries, El Salvador has a pretty bad reputation--by now, who in America hasn't heard of the MS13, or Mara Salvatrucha gang? According to some politicians and news organizations who were casting their race-bait for loyal followership, we were headed for a crime-ridden "sh%thole" of a country.
Again, we felt the fear was waaaay overblown. And although MS13 is an American export to El Salvador, not the other way around, the gang's influence is primarily centered in certain neighborhoods in the capital, places we could easily avoid.
Furthermore, the overlanders we'd been communicating with who had spent any time in this tiny country had all had a wonderful experience. One couple, in fact, said El Salvador was their favorite place, and even took a long break from the South American leg of their journey to fly back there--a vacation from their vacation, if you will.
We had no reason to expect anything different.
So, with our friends Karl and Leah Wolf (aka "Guided by Wolves"), we aimed south for the border. We spent the night camped at a restaurant not far away, and in the morning got an early start.
Border crossings being what they are, we had a bit of a wait, but overall, entry into El Salvador was simple and painless.
When the border agent asked if we had any pets, I pretended he was asking me alone, and said, "No." Karl pretended he didn't hear the question, and just looked the other way, hoping Oso wouldn't poke her furry head out the window of his truck.
Once through with the formalities, we struck out on the Ruta de Flores, or Route of the Flowers, which took us to Juayua (why-you-wah).
Along the way, I noticed red flags emblazoned with the initials "FMLN" flying over many of the homes and businesses we passed. An equal number of blue and white "Arena" flags competed for attention. The flags were heralding the two largest political organizations in El Salvador, both of which harken back to the civil war in the 1980s.
FMLN was the rebel organization ("communists" according to the US-sponsored government) that rose up against the El Salvadoran dictatorship.
Arena was the organization of the much-feared Roberto d'Aubuisson (aka "blowtorch Bob", after his favorite tool of torture), who ran the US-sponsored death squads responsible for the assassination of the Catholic archbishop Romero and the Jesuit priests and nuns, to name a few.
Surprisingly, both political parties are still alive and kicking, though apparently these days they only "kick" each other with political proclamations instead of boots and bullets.
Our first stop was to a coffee plantation in the mountains north of Juayua, named El Portazuelo.
In 1932 there was a real communist uprising which centered in the area. The leader, Agustin Faribundo Marti, would later (and posthumously) give his initials to the FMLN, the rebel group in the 1980s civil war.
At the turn of the 20th century, a very few wealthy landowners, many of them foreign immigrants, enlarged and consolidated their holdings over most of the arable land in the country, the bulk of it planted in coffee. The peasants, many of them indigenous people, were either kicked off the land, or alternatively, were forced to work the plantations at the point of a gun. By 1930, a day's wages consisted of two tortillas and two spoonfuls of beans twice a day.
In 1932, when the Great Depression in the US led to a drop in coffee prices, many workers lost their jobs. With quite literally nothing left to lose, they revolted. The short-lived uprising, led by Senor Faribundo Marti, ended with the massacre of between 10,000 and 40,000 peasants.
I don't know the complete history of the ownership of El Portazuelo, but based on the writeup they had at their little theme park, I believe the original owners were likely some of the country's aforementioned oligarchs.
As we would later come to learn, the consolidation of wealth in the early 1900s ended up squeezing out any hope for the rise of a strong middle class, setting up a national legacy of poverty which has endured to this day.
Climbing Volcan Santa Ana
From Portazuelo we headed to Cerro Verde National Park, where we positioned ourselves for a morning "assault" of Santa Ana Volcano.
Hiking up the slopes of Santa Ana we gained a nice view back to the black cinder cone of Izalco.
Once above "timberline" the ecosystem seemed more like a desert, with maguey plants sprouting brilliant blooms towards the sky.
At the top, a desolate moonscape awaited us. Deep in the core of the crater, mists rose over a green lake, giving it the appearance of some evil witch's brew.
Unfortunately, our climb coincided with a dozen bus loads of high school students. When we got to the rim, we shared the view with nearly 200 excited teenagers. We were relieved when no one selfied their way over the crater rim.
We also were accompanied on the hike by armed guards, and when I asked our guide if there had been a history of mountain assaults of the violent kind, he replied that ever since they implemented the tourist police program in 2005, there had been no incidents.
It wasn't clear in his response whether prior to 2005 there were any incidents either, but I wasn't going to press the subject. At least we knew that the feared mareros weren't going to jump out of the bushes and rob us and our 200 fellow hikers on the way back down.
To celebrate, we headed to a campsite on the shore of nearby Lago Coatepeque, El Salvador's answer to Guatemala's Atitlan.
The next morning the Wolves headed east to Playa Cuco, while we aimed south for the beaches of Sunzal.
Beachtime!
El Salvador is famous for its waves, and spots like La Libertad, Sunzal, and el Tunco are legendary among the board-riding crowd. Although we're not surfers, the attraction for us was the sun and sand and perhaps a chance to soak in a bit of the international, backpacker-traveler-overlander vibe that permeate such places.
The potential for paragliding at a site not far from the coast was an additional attraction.
Playa Sunzal, with it's black sand beaches, is a laid-back and localized version of Tunco. Here, instead of all-night party bars, fisherman "ranchos" line the beachfront, and there was not a foreign face to be seen.
We did traipse over to Tunco, but I'll have to admit, after only a couple days in the "tribal" environment of a beach side tourist town, we soon had our fill and were ready to move on.
San Salvador
As luck would have it, we had some documents we needed to overnight to the states, and the only express shipping offices we could find were in the capital, San Salvador.
Upon our arrival at our hotel in the downtown historic center, the concierge warned us not to walk around the area at night. We knew that San Salvador had dangerous neighborhoods, but had we known that included the historic center, we would have booked a different hotel.
Since it was barely mid-day, we took a cab to the main plaza for a look around. The center turned out to be a bit disappointing, however--the area had only a few colonial buildings, and no enticing restaurants--and while it certainly was worth a quick look, we had expected much more from a capital city.
We did visit the National Cathedral. Situated on the main plaza, the area in front of the church was the site of mass demonstrations against the government during the decades-long civil war.
In an alcove of the church was a memorial to the then Archbishop, and now saint, Oscar Romero, who was assassinated in 1980.
Romero's death wasn't the first time the US-supported government had targeted the clergy. The army had long considered Catholic priests enemies of the state due to their support of the poor campesinos and the preaching of a liberation theology, but the Archbishop's death was certainly the most impactful.
Upon Romero's murder, the civil war, which had previously simmered with run-of-the-mill disappearances, assassinations, and subsequent reprisals, erupted into a full-blown conflagration. For the next twelve years the countryside burned, tens of thousands of people--mostly poor, peasant, non-combatants--were murdered or went missing, and the ruling junta and its American bankers-cheerleaders-advisers lost all legitimacy as a force of good for the civilian population.
On a happier thought, after a quick stroll through the heavily-guarded market, we taxied to an upscale neighborhood to a modern brew-pub for lunch, the Cadejo Brewing Company. We had sampled their beer at Cerro Verde, found it delightful, and given the opportunity, just had to make a visit to the "mother ship."
During our lunch of wood-fired pizzas, two ladies happened by our table, and we struck up a conversation. As it turned out, they were family friends of one of the owners, and our conversation ended with not only a tour of the brewery, but an unexpected invitation to one of the women's beach house.
"It's just a shack," the owner said.
"A museum," her friend corrected. "It was the first home built on that stretch of coast. You have to go there."
With only a moment's hesitation, we said "Ok". And just like that, the next morning we found ourselves headed once more to the coast, to Playa San Marcelino.
Playa San Marcelino
We pulled into a cool, well-tended garden, were met by the caretaker, and navigated the driveway to a spot in the shade.
Later that day we strolled down the beach and had lunch at the only restaurant in town. Our table overlooked the sand, and as our meal ended we could see some fishermen down the shoreline launching their boats into the surf. Curious, we paid our bill, then went down for a closer look.
After watching the fishermen for a few minutes, we politely asked if we could take some photos. They happily agreed.
For the rest of the afternoon we watched and photographed the villagers dragging the heavy boats down the sand, launching them into the surf, and battling their way through the breakers to reach the open sea.
The whole family helped guide the launch to the water. Watching the incoming breakers, they waited for just the right moment, and with a final shove, heave-hoed the boat into the slosh. The captain and mate jumped aboard quickly, the motor came to life with a roar, and the launch rocketed over the wave.
At that point the boat was committed--but still wasn't clear of danger. Racing the boat up the shoreline, the captain scanned the next set of waves, and when he saw an open slot, he gunned the motor once more. In one final surge, the boat literally leaped out of the water and cleared the breakers. Everyone on shore erupted with a cheer.
The fishermen, two to a boat, would spend the night at sea tending their nets, returning in the morning with their catch.
We wanted to see how the night's fishing went, so we came back in the morning as well. When we arrived, a few boats had already landed and unloaded their catch, but soon another craft arrived. With a roar from the motor, the boat cruised through the surf and coasted right up onto the sand. Once the launch was on shore, the family gathered around to survey the catch.
The night had been a success. Nearly two dozen, sturdy robalo were soon offloaded and carried up to the fishing shacks to be cleaned and packed in ice.
Now there was one more task--getting the heavy boat up the sandy beach to a secure spot well above the high-tide mark.
To carry the boat, the fishermen tied long poles fore and aft which they used to shoulder the load. It took twelve strong men and women to heft the launch, motor, nets and all, up the steep sand.
The effort it took to launch, fish all night long, and then unload and reset the boats was unfathomable, and as long as the fishing season allowed, it was a scene repeated every day of the week. With the weather this time of year stiflingly hot, just standing under the Pacific sun was enough to make us northern gringos sweat. We couldn't imagine what it would be like to live the fisherman's life.
Under the Shadows of War
From El Salvador's southern coast, most overland travelers head directly to Nicaragua, spending only a day or two crossing the extreme southeast tip of Honduras. Because we had nearly five weeks before we needed to be in Costa Rica for our house-sit, we decided not to rush.
Checking Google Maps, I figured out we could go north to the department of Morazan (still in El Salvador), then head back west across almost the entire country before turning north once more towards Copan in Honduras. From there we could hug the north coast eastward to Trujillo before making one last swing south to Nicaragua.
Plan set, we spent a long day in the saddle getting up to Perquin in the department of Morazan.
Morazan and Perquin were the center of the 1980s "communist" uprising in El Salvador. I put communist in quotes, because when you explore what happened and why, it becomes clear that the war was more about the oligarchy's desire to preserve control over all aspects of the El Salvadoran economy than it was about beating back Marxist ideology.
I'll spare you the details, but if you're interested, you can read about El Salvador's fifteen years of civil war here. One important incident needs bearing witness, however: the massacre at El Mozote.
Most Americans have never heard of El Mozote, and yet it was their government which funded and trained the Atlacatl battalion--the ultra right-wing military organization which, over a three day period in December 1981, murdered more than 1000 civilian men, women and children at El Mozote as part of their "scorched earth" strategy.
Following the massacre, the Reagan administration, in collusion with the Salvadoran leaders, covered up the events of those three days of horror, not only delaying justice for the victims, but enabling the war to continue for another ten years at the expense of some 75,000 lives.
Today there is a memorial at the site, and interned in the tomb are the bones of the 146 children the army summarily executed at El Mozote. The average age: five years old.
In nearby Perquin, the Museum of the Revolution has several rooms of displays related to the war. Former FMLN guerrillas are the tour guides, and they color their explanations with first-hand accounts of their experiences during the war.
We were surprised to learn that the US sold arms to the guerrillas, too. On display is a US-made surface-to-air weapon, good for a single shot. Cost? $35,000. According to our guide, the US companies were happy to make money on both sides of the conflict.
After the massacre, the US advised the army to take a less "visible" approach to the war. Rather than focus on sacking villages and murdering the civilians to eliminate support for the guerrillas, they began a bombing campaign aimed directly at the guerrilla camps and training centers.
The guide laughed when he told us how the guerrillas would simply evacuate their camps when the planes came, thereby avoiding casualties.
Following the peace accord in 1992, the conflict ended, but the denials about the massacre at El Mozote continued for years. Ironically, a general amnesty law was passed forgiving the army for the atrocities they supposedly never committed. The law was finally declared unconstitutional in 2016. One hopes that more than thirty years later, there might finally be some justice for the victims of the war.
On a happier note, we camped for a couple nights at a beautiful stretch of river just outside of El Mozote.
The site is a popular campsite on weekends, and it was a pleasure to hear the laughter of the children as they dove from the rocks into the refreshing water.
That afternoon we were chatting with a local villager who had spent a number of years in the US, and consequently spoke fluent English. He explained how today, the threat of violence comes from the Mara Salvatrucha gang, which is trying to make inroads into the towns and villages of Morazan.
The local told us quite plainly, "We don't want those guys coming up here." He then lowered his voice and commented, "You know what happens when we see them? We get rid of them."
Our visit to Morazan complete, the next day we made the long drive west to San Ignacio and the border with Honduras.
When we first considered visiting El Salvador, its reputation for violent crime had given us some pause. Indeed, many overlanders we've encountered share the same concerns, and some even skip it entirely. However, after three weeks of exploring the country end-to-end and back again, and with nothing bad ever happening to us, we really enjoyed our visit and were glad we made the effort.
Epilogue: Later I did a brief search on Perquin, El Mozote, and discovered that the day before we arrived, the body of a 25 year old "marero" had been found nearby. He had apparently been pulled off a bus by armed men and then executed. Whether the assassins were local vigilantes, or other gang members "offing" a turncoat or a rival had not been determined.